


Sometimes Lost Is Where You Need to Be

by stardust_made



Series: Sometimes Lost [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-10
Updated: 2012-02-10
Packaged: 2017-10-30 22:09:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/336681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardust_made/pseuds/stardust_made
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He, a doctor and an ex-soldier, a man well into his thirties, and one who has never, ever had a penchant for dramatics, has left his house at past two in the morning running away from his feelings. How has it gotten to this, how? He knows very well how. There is a singularity in his life which swallows all that was before it and distorts all that followed after—walking into a room at St Bartholomew’s hospital and meeting a tall, peculiar-looking, hypnotic man, who flipped John’s world upside down without batting an eyelid."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sometimes Lost Is Where You Need to Be

  
It’s drizzling. _Would you believe it?_ Creepy darkness all around, a hysterical swirl of incoherence in his own head, cold, _bloody cold_. And now it’s drizzling. John is so far from amused he might as well sit and pose for a passable profile of Queen Victoria.  
  
He was panicking severely, then he was thinking, then he was panicking again. He's been reeling for over an hour.  
  
John has done many ridiculous things in his life, many—and pacing through a London park in the middle of the night—in November!—shouldn’t really be a big deal. Yet to the fundamentally ordinary, normal part of John, it’s a cornerstone. He can’t quite believe that he's here. He, a doctor and an ex-soldier, a man well into his thirties, and one who has never, ever had a penchant for dramatics, has left his house at past two in the morning running away from his _feelings_. How has it gotten to this, how?  
  
He knows very well how. There is a singularity in his life which swallows all that was before it and distorts all that followed after—walking into a room at St Bartholomew’s hospital and meeting a tall, peculiar-looking, hypnotic man, who flipped John’s world upside down without batting an eyelid. _That’s the most infuriating bit_ , John savagely thinks. Sherlock didn’t even do anything out of ordinary by his own standards. At their meeting John had a life-changing experience and all it took for Sherlock was to just be himself.  
  
The rest of the story has been a colourful affair, like the map of London John knows Sherlock keeps folded in his mind’s eye. And tonight the story has hit the big yellow flashing WAIT sign of the traffic lights. Although that realization came to John later. If he hadn’t left the flat immediately there wouldn’t have been waiting back there, not with what he’d felt. No, at the time he didn't think about what was happening; he didn’t run out of consideration. His instincts simply bypassed everything else, and he fled in the face of massive emotional overload. _Human minds_ , John thinks bitterly like he's thought many times before. _So poorly equipped_.  
  
But now he’s been here for a while, the chill doing an excellent job of cooling his head, and John is afraid he’s read the map wrong—that it’s the ROAD CLOSED sign he has gotten to. Sadly, he doubts that reversing is any longer an option.  
  
He should have seen this. He should have known it was a possibility, that _nothing_ should be discarded as void where Sherlock was concerned. _There were clues, pun fully intended,_ John's rare display of acerbic wit offers. When had he ever been fascinated with anything or anyone? Intrigued, yes; interested, yes; attracted, yes. Even passionate, yes, occasionally. But not fascinated. It wasn’t the way his steady mind worked. He didn’t have the imagination for it. Then one day his phone had beeped—and he was following a madman _everywhere_ , his own world swivelling to a small focal point: Sherlock.  
  
Sherlock. Sherlock was unsettling and extremely strange. He was brilliant and difficult and even the way his hair was cut high at the back so that it exposed his long neck, making him look like a graduate from a public school in the beginning of the last century—even _that_ was fascinating. Everything about him was. It has been from the moment he opened his mouth and John heard that deep, slightly spoilt, reverberating voice, again more befitting another era and place. Everything about Sherlock was borderline otherworldly and John picked up on it instantly, imagination flaring up out of nowhere. That should have been his biggest sign.  
  
But to be fair, he had a few more important things on his mind than to reflect on the possible implications of his fascination with his flatmate. Like saving said flatmate from all sorts of things, not in the least from himself. And acting a bit like his mother, his tutor, his valet, his doctor, his assistant, his mediator, his protector, and his friend. So yes, John overlooked the fact that when it came to Sherlock Holmes, all of John’s defaults went out of the window and _anything_ became possible.  
  
He now sees that this has been shimmering at the outer edges of their relationship from the very start. John has run after Sherlock like a naturalist after a unique specimen: a beautiful, extraordinary creature which could be deadly but it matters not. Or to reverse the metaphor John has been the specimen—he’s been the proverbial moth to Sherlock’s flame and he has occasionally observed _himself_ with fascination, fluttering his soft wings closer and closer to the burning light, oddly detached from all that is basic and sound in him, and yet connected to something else own and equally profound.  
  
He might have not seen this coming consciously, but there is a sense of inevitability when John sums up where he is now. Drawn. Viciously wanting. Naturally. Nothing Sherlock-related could be tepid. Oh, awareness has indeed broken through, making a rather big song and dance about it. But recognition isn’t all the solution; it’s only the first step. Unfortunately John feels so lost, he hasn’t got a clue in what direction that step is.  
  
He realizes he’s been shivering by the sound his teeth are making. He is also more tired than he’s been for a long time and he is getting slowly soaked to his underwear, and he still has no idea what to do, not at all. John remembers what a mate of his offered as a piece of advice when John told him he was joining the Army. “ ‘If a soldier doesn’t know how to act,’ my old man used to say, ‘then he doesn’t act’.” John found that a bit stupid but on this occasion he has to concur. There will not be miracles here or decisions or orders to follow. So he might as well go home and get some sleep. The immediate danger should have already passed out anyway.  
  
***  
  
There is unusual quiet in the whole house for eight in the morning. John is generally up around seven, but now he blinks groggily, eyelids raising an argument every time he lifts them—God, he wants to sleep. His body, wrecked from his nocturnal antics, is demanding he stopped ignoring its needs on all fronts. His mind is backing it up firmly, exhausted from having done in a few hours the equivalent of years of self-reflection for the average adult male. And his heart...John knows it's there; it’s thumping in his chest, telling him that of course he isn't going to _die_ from this, oh no, but he is going to hurt...Well, his heart longingly considers sleep as salvation. John hasn't wanted to avoid facing reality that badly since the weeks post his return from Afghanistan, when every time he woke up to a new day in his bare, impersonal room he felt like he was drowning. The memory of those days is still enough to make him recoil. What would have happened to him if he hadn't met—  
  
John wishes he could just close his eyes into oblivion.  
  
But the same level-headedness, which prodded him earlier about his freezing in vain in the ill-advised retreat to Regent's Park, informs him that regardless of what he decides to do he'll need his job to do it. John presses his palms to his face, sighs, and pushes himself out of bed.  
  
At that point the quiet of the house sounds very welcome. Eight in the morning on any other day would mean the sound of Mrs Hudson's TV barely audible from the ground floor and the sound of Sherlock's movements louder from their sitting-room. But John remembers Mrs Hudson is visiting a friend in the Lake District. And Sherlock, in a much-relished proof his needs are just as human as everyone else's, is probably asleep after the drunken night he had while role-playing for a case.  
  
The mere flicker of the memory of finding Sherlock, looking debauched on all four in their fire-lit, provocatively warm shared space downstairs, makes John's heart start living up to its promise that this would hurt. He is grateful that at least he isn't a sense-memory person ( _warm fingers on his bare neck, intoxicating scent up his nostrils_ ). His body is tense enough for him to be adding another, _very_ pleasant but unwanted all the same predicament to it. John brushes his teeth, goes in the shower, does the hot and cold switch of water, which he used to do even before the army, dries himself up quickly, uses his roll-on deodorant, casts an unwavering eye at his reflection, suppresses a flinch at how horrible he looks this morning, how old, and grey, and so...off-putting, then shakes himself out of his unexpected bout of vanity, shaves quickly, and finally leaves the bathroom. He dresses with the same flat expedience: boxer shorts, jeans, t-shirt, shirt, jumper; puts his shoes on, takes his jacket in hand and heads downstairs.  
  
At the landing he has a textbook conflict of interests.  
  
Part of him—the one looking after his short-term well-being by the simple methods of denial and postponing, tells him to just get out of the house without any stopovers and go into the blissful universe of mundane everyday life: bus, job, people who aren't Sherlock.  
  
Another part—the one which is invested in Sherlock's well-being, and at least that's a part John has been aware of having for a very long time—insists on him checking on his flatmate. _For all you know, Sherlock might have died choking on his own vomit_ , urges him the second part. _That would certainly be one solution to the problem_ , the first retorts rather morbidly. _I am going mad_ , John worries in his last fortress of independent thinking. He feels it's quite unfair he should already be suffering the consequences of his last night's discoveries before he's even met their subject.  
  
In spite of how said discoveries shook him, in general John knows himself quite well. He decides it would be better if he went in after all. Otherwise in the course of the day his anxiety would eat worm-holes through him. Best to get this over with now.  
  
As he quietly walks in John is very glad to find he isn't hoping Sherlock's dead, not really. It gives him an odd sense of hope that he's not exhausted all options to work this out yet.  
  
Sherlock isn't on the floor in the middle of the sitting-room where John left him. ( _Roughly rolled up sleeves of his shirt, flush on his neck—No, no. No!_ ) That much was obvious from the door anyway. He isn't on the sofa, either, nor in the kitchen, as John quickly establishes. That leaves two options: one, which John would greet as warmly as if it was his long lost innocence of youth, is that Sherlock has already gone out of the house; the other, and it has a lot to do with John's guilt for lacking any innocence, is that Sherlock is behind the barely open door of his bedroom. John stares at the door, immobile not out of uncertainty whether he should walk in, but out of pure fear. He knows he is terribly vulnerable—there are some positives from his middle of the night soul-searching and his awareness of how susceptible he is at the moment is one of them. Seeing Sherlock in bed, a warm, tangled mess of sheets, limbs and skin, with that rare softness on his face, which John had found mesmerising even before he realized that he—that his—  
  
Yes, Sherlock's bedroom is a scary place, but still John pushes the door open with just the tips of his fingers, eager to be quiet for the sake of both the occupant and the intruder.  
  
Sherlock is in his bed, lying flat on his back under the covers, hands resting on top of each other on his chest, and eyes shut. He is wearing a clean t-shirt and his hair is just wild. He must have managed a shower at some point and then gone to sleep with damp hair. His face is calm.  
  
John is rooted to the spot. He takes Sherlock in. _This is the first time I am looking at him, knowing,_ John thinks. _And thank heavens he can't see my face right now, at least not the first time. Small mercies._ He also thinks, _let me look at him now, let me look, because I don't know how I'll be able to look at him ever again without going into spontaneous combustion, or without running away, or without turning to ash under His Majesty The Gaze, the all-consuming, all-knowing Gaze..._  
  
Here he is, Sherlock Holmes, builder of men, wrecker of men. It's only fair, really, that he should be the one to break John apart if he was the one who put John together in the first place. For a split second John thinks that his friend looks as if he's lying in his coffin, then smacks himself mentally for the chilling thought. Then it doesn't matter at all, because he is about to join the dead he's been thinking about—his heart nearly calls it a day when a voice says suddenly, "I'm not dead."  
  
"Jesus Christ!" exclaims John.  
  
Sherlock turns his head and fixes his flatmate with his unblinking eyes. Still battling the shock John is nevertheless all too unhappy to notice there is nothing subdued about Sherlock’s eyes anymore. It's like alcohol never entered Sherlock's body or blurred his mind; in fact, if it wasn't for the crumpled pile of clothes on the floor next to the bed ( _the jeans, the wretched tight jeans_ ) John could have even entertained the possibility that he'd imagined their encounter in the middle of the night. _Nothing happened anyway,_ he thinks resignedly. _So it wouldn't matter if I imagined it. How I feel is real and can't be unimagined._  
  
"John?" Sherlock’s voice floats to him.  
  
John is aware he's still standing and staring at Sherlock. _This is how it's going to be from now on,_ he reflects miserably, _perpetually caught off-guard. How am I going to deal with this, how—_  
  
"I'm sorry, what did you say?" he replies in an attempt to drown the panic.  
  
"I said I wasn't dead," Sherlock repeats."Which obviously was the reason for you to come in and check on me."  
  
"Oh, right. Yes. No, I thought you'd said something else after that."  
  
"No, I didn't. " Sherlock's eyes aren't leaving John’s face. "I was going to ask you why you waited at the landing for so long, though."  
  
John blinks, his nostrils flare. _I need air, more air._  
  
"Are you alright?" There is curiosity and a trace of concern in Sherlock's voice.  
  
"I'm fine."  
  
There's a pause, two long seconds, then John clears his throat and adds, "You?"  
  
"Fine." It's a short, low rumble of a sound. John feels the spread of something terribly pleasurable and ticklish up his thighs, and takes a _very_ careful breath. "Good, good," he says. "I'm off to work then; see you later."  
  
Sherlock's brow furrows."But I haven't told you about the—"  
  
John's already out of the room.  
  
***  
  
All of John's hopes that his working day would somehow defy the laws of Physics and never end are crushed every time he looks at his watch and notices that time does, in fact, pass. It's the end of his shift all too soon. It's the end of his journey home all too soon, too, despite the fact that he chooses to brave the chill and walk all the distance to the Marylebone area. He stops and picks a magazine in the nearest WHSmith's for _ages_. He then pops into his local, has a long pint of beer, then gets another one. Time continues to pass in its unperturbed manner.  
  
Just as John is considering, in a defiant act of bringing balance to the Universe, that perhaps tonight _he_ should be the one to get drunk, his phone vibrates in his pocket. He feels the closest to a schoolgirl when he experiences the mean, traitorous flutter in his chest at the sight of the sender's name.  
  
The message reads, _"Where is the blue powder?SH"_  
  
John replies, fully aware he's misplacing an awful lot of frustration.  
  
 _"Your number has been in my phonebook since the day I met you— why do you have to continue putting your initials at the end of every bloody message?"_  
  
Twenty seconds later, the answer arrives.  
  
 _"Habit. Blue powder?"_  
  
John notices the lack of initials and the small victory pleases him out of proportion. He is however currently fed up with examining his responses to Sherlock Holmes, so he chooses to text back immediately.  
  
 _"221C."_  
  
 _"Why is it there?"_  
  
 _"Sherlock, we've had this conversation three times already. Hazards, remember?"_  
  
The reply doesn't surprise him one bit.  
  
 _"What I remember is saying it wasn't convenient for me. Thought that resolved things."_  
  
John presses the keys a little too hard.  
  
 _"Just because something doesn't suit you, it doesn't mean it's resolved. There are two of us to consider!"_  
  
There is the longest pause since the beginning of the exchange. Two minutes pass with John checking his phone every ten seconds, while his breathing gets steadier. Finally the screen illuminates, just as he is looking at it.  
  
 _"As you say."_  
  
John frowns. He has the feeling he's arrived at a place to which he wasn’t even aware he was travelling. He finishes his pint, takes a deep breath, and heads for the gallows.  
  
***  
  
Sherlock and Mrs Hudson are talking in Mrs Hudson’s flat and John takes the opportunity to climb the stairs two at a time and go directly to his bedroom. He swiftly closes the door behind himself and feels a sense of relief as if he's managed to avoid a particularly vile viral infection.  
  
It doesn't last. As soon as the initial rush is over John looks around, reality settling in his mind. What now? What is he supposed to do now? Aside from the existential pertinence of the question, there is its very material relevance—he literally doesn't know what to do. There is no TV in his bedroom, no food, no tea. He's got one book on his bedside table, which he's been reading to put himself to sleep. Even his laptop is downstairs. For a second time within a quarter of an hour John has the feeling that he's been uncharacteristically precipitous. This is getting out of hand too fast, too fast...  
  
He sits on his bed and suddenly avoidance isn't working anymore. His day catches up with him; the last twenty-four hours do. Has it been just twenty-four hours? Yes. It was around the same time last night that Sherlock turned up in his fashionable attire, ready to hit an exclusive trendy club under cover, working on the blackmailing case. John's defense against the memories is finally futile and they calmly defeat him.  
  
Sherlock's new expensive aftershave conquered the entire sitting room within minutes as if he had gone around it, rubbing his face against the furniture, the walls, even John. (The mental image of that makes the hairs on John's arm stand to attention.) The scent lingered for hours, making John inhaling deeply every few minutes until his head had started swimming from the extra supply of oxygen.  
  
Sherlock and John argued again about the safety of it all with John trying not to seem too disappointed and left out, and Sherlock, in contrast, looking surprisingly glad to leave John behind. John hadn't liked the implications of that—he'd briefly wondered if Sherlock was ashamed of being seen with John in such a fancy setting. Of course he knew Sherlock well enough to realize how utterly unfounded such a hypothesis was, but the discomfort at the thought had refused to disappear that easily. Perhaps it was because of the stark difference between them. Never had the two of them seemed so…mismatched. Sherlock, all grace, striking features, expensive public school background and a fitting outfit. He looked so fresh, so boyish. John can't help but smile at the thought—Sherlock looks about twelve on an average day anyway. _No, scratch that,_ John's mind coyly supplies. _Your newfound appreciation of him firmly puts him in the adult section, doesn't it?_  
  
John buries his face in his hands. His old, graying face—the contrast continues, as if it was never interrupted. John, standing in the middle of the sitting room with his slightly faded shirt, his slightly fading features. A few years only between him and Sherlock, and yet John looked up at Sherlock and saw a hundred years stretching between himself and the young man about town in front of him. Maybe it was also the case, so different from their usual cases. Looks and age, outfits and manners don't usually matter when you're both standing at a crime scene. Or when you're chasing someone in the dark of a London suburb. All cats are black at night.  
  
A soft knock on the door startles John. Damn the man! The chain of association continues seamlessly with John silently cursing Sherlock for moving like a kitten. And damn his uncanny perceptiveness. How does he know when it's appropriate to just burst in or when to knock and then enter without waiting for an answer? Or, like now, to stay outside until he gets invited? For someone not particularly interested—nor adept—in matters of human conduct outside of the zone of "Gore and Related", Sherlock is remarkably astute when it comes to John. John has found that in turns baffling, amusing, and secretly flattering.  
  
A response is required of John—he'll have to see Sherlock face to face. The thought makes him feel suddenly lighter. He shouldn't be that surprised. He's established a long time ago that to avoid and postpone is always worse eventually. Afghanistan confirmed that belief to no end. The activity was always better than the wait. He's drifted into the civilians' way of thinking, John realizes. He's wasted a whole day. Let _something_ happen; let there be action in any direction.  
  
There is another knock on the door with a level "John?"  
  
"Yes," John replies instantly.  
  
Sherlock opens the door and takes one step into the room. He's got John's laptop in his hands, the cable clasped to it, but still hanging down a little.  
  
"I thought you might need this," he says.  
  
"Thanks. Er, what do I need it for?" John asks, frowning.  
  
Sherlock looks at him with a puzzled expression.  
  
"Are you asking me to make suggestions about what sort of things you should occupy yourself with? Because there _is_ a website I'd recommend: ritualistic disembowelment in—"  
  
John lifts his hand. "No! I don't want to know."  
  
Sherlock tilts his head, still looking puzzled. "Then why are you asking me?"  
  
"No, Sherlock…" John begins tiredly, feeling another of the myriad of bizarre conversations he has with Sherlock approaching. "I didn't ask for suggestions what to do with my laptop. I only asked why you brought it to me. I thought there was something I needed to do, like—Have we paid Thames Water this month?"  
  
"You said you'd set up a direct debit," Sherlock says a tad defensively.  
  
"Well, I would if my bank account didn't go to zero at the end of every month."  
  
"Get an overdraft, I've already told you."  
  
"And I've told you I don't want to live on borrowed money. Call me old-fashioned but I want to spend only what I earn."  
  
"You are old- fashioned."  
  
"Yes." John feels old for sure. He repeats unnecessarily, "Yes."  
  
There is a moment of silence, during which John is looking at his shoes. Eventually Sherlock speaks, his voice neutral.  
  
"I brought your laptop, because I thought you'd be bored here, and you obviously have no plans of coming downstairs."  
  
"Thanks." John lifts his eyes.  
  
Sherlock peers back into them, carefully searching, almost wary—then makes the couple of steps to John's bed and drops the laptop on it. John can't help but register the ripples in the air at Sherlock's movements. John’s skin prickles, his chest is gently pushed by them. Sherlock doesn't linger—as soon as the laptop touches the bed, he turns on his heel and walks off. John finds his eyes (in)conveniently leveled at Sherlock's lower back and backside, moving away in their unique fashion. It's over too soon, but not soon enough to prevent heat from fulminating in John's belly at the sight.  
  
***  
  
John goes downstairs after an agonizing hour in his bedroom during which he feels so imprisoned in his head that it approaches physical sickness. What makes him leave is the realization that the few minutes spent with Sherlock were the most normal he's felt all day. It's a paradox, surely, but John is at such a muddled place, he doesn't dwell on its nature, just accepts it gratefully.  
  
Sherlock is tipping a small amount of the blue powder in a test tube when John walks in.  
  
"You found it then," John says.  
  
"This is the same as 'You're back then.', when you see me at the door step—true but completely unnecessary, John." Sherlock sounds much brighter than his words. "I've spoken to Mrs Hudson about aborting the plan of keeping my experiments and the equipment at 221 C."  
  
"Do we have to go over this again?" John sighs but it's half-hearted.  
  
"I don't know, John, do we? You know I hate to repeat myself, but I should account for your being...distracted." Sherlock is careful, but firm."My work needs to be within my immediate reach at all times. I can't be going to—"  
  
"It's only a couple of minutes, Sherlock," John interrupts. “And it's not like I asked you to move all of your things there, just the more dangerous stuff, and the body parts, and the ones with the ghastly smell, but not—  
"  
  
"The list is immaterial. It's a waste of my time and it breaks my concentration."  
  
"Well it breaks mine to find two dozen sheep droppings in my cup first thing in the morning! And while we're at it—my cup, Sherlock! Mine."  
  
"Oh, fine! If you'll be petty about it, I won't be using any of your “stuff'”!" Sherlock doesn't need to physically gesticulate for John to feel the dripping with sarcasm air quotes. Sherlock continues. "But I refuse to move what is practically eighty percent of my day-to-day work into another flat."  
  
Sherlock stops abruptly and straightens up. "This is my flat, John. I know we share it and I appreciate I'm not what you'd call a typical flatmate, but you knew what you were getting yourself into from the very beginning—"  
  
John almost chirps. "Ha! I wish I did."  
  
Sherlock does the bewildered head tilt for a second time this evening, but this time there's definitely something akin to hurt, too.  
  
"Meaning?"  
  
John regroups and heads into the kitchen.  
  
"Never mind. You can keep anything you want here. Tea?"  
  
The quiet is palpable. Then Sherlock says, "Please."  
  
The rest of the evening passes like any other evening in which there's no case and they are both in. John watches some telly and Sherlock mutters under his breath about varieties of needle punctures. He asks John some medical questions that John is very glad to be able to answer, because it allows him to look at Sherlock freely while being occupied with delivering some good, factual information. Sherlock tries to bring up the blackmailing case twice but John manages to avoid it in what he believes are most inconspicuous ways.  
  
He heats up some chicken casserole leftovers—God bless Mrs Hudson—and they both have dinner. John while reading his magazine, and Sherlock while poking his finger at various inaccuracies in John's magazine and trying to turn the pages before John's finished with them. At some point John offers him the magazine because he can't swat Sherlock’s fingers anymore as he would usually do. Swatting is Touching, Touching is a big No. Sherlock loses all interest in the magazine once John's not reading it. John does the washing up; Sherlock hums agreement that he'll clear it up tomorrow. John surfs the internet for an hour while Sherlock paces up and down the room, occupied in his own thoughts, occasionally texting and receiving texts back; then he finally drops on the sofa. More thinking ensues, Sherlock shuffling about until his legs are propped on the wall and his head is hanging from the edge of the sofa, face doubling its angles with the upside down perspective. Altogether a normal sort of evening.  
  
Apart from John having the feeling that there is a whole other dynamic going on under the surface. But he is content to attribute this to his paranoid state of mind. _No, it's not too bad, not too bad at all,_ John thinks. _This could work. Nothing has to change simply because I have this…thing for Sherlock now. He isn't noticing and I am doing well hiding it, and with any luck it'll go away, or it'll get old soon, so all in all, yes, we'll be fine, it'll be all fine._  
  
Then Sherlock says with what his shamming-to-be-a-pleasant-customer voice, "Did I upset you last night while I was drunk?"  
  
 _Too good to be true,_ thinks John a millisecond before giving the only honest answer any man could give in this situation.  
  
"What?"  
  
"That seems to be a plausible explanation for your odd behaviour," Sherlock murmurs.  
  
"My odd—How is my behaviour odd?"  
  
"Really John?" Sherlock abruptly turns back to a sitting position like some acrobat or an hour-glass. His eyebrow conveys his mild amusement at John's perpetual automatic attempts to either state or deny the _obvious_. To _him_.  
  
"There are a number of details which have added together," Sherlock starts. "Perhaps separately they could be called incidental, and although nothing is ever really incidental, it would be exhausting for me to try and unravel the cause behind an individual occurrence. So I let it pass. But when there are a number of them it means there is a pattern. And it becomes impossible for me to ignore it."  
  
"Why?" John asks. It sounds like something between a question and a plea. There are hundreds of threads he could pick up from Sherlock's words, not in the least the fact that there is, in plain sight, _the issue_ —but for some reason John stupidly wants to know what it is that drives Sherlock in, where most people would be content to stay away. _He is Sherlock,_ offers a voice in his head. _He doesn't keep away where most people would and he goes where most people wouldn't. That's who he is._  
  
Sherlock, it seems, has interpreted John's question as an enquiry of his particular motivation on this occasion.  
  
"Because it matters to me if I have—Because we share a flat and your well-being is—" Sherlock swallows. "It matters."  
  
John looks at Sherlock. Whatever's written on John’s face provokes Sherlock to swallow again, this time more visibly. Then Sherlock pulls himself together and adds. "Don't gape, John. I know it's your default expression around me but make an effort. And feel free to speak—it's one of the major differences between you and the skull I've come to appreciate."  
  
There is a hint of a smile at the corner of Sherlock's mouth, but John is certain there are two tense men in the room. He does what he knows well how to do: he takes action.  
  
"Nothing happened," he says. "You did nothing to upset me last night. I'm going upstai—"  
  
"Then what is the matter?"  
  
"Nothing's the matter. Can we drop it now?"  
  
"No. You're lying to me and I can't let that go unexamined."  
  
"Unexa—For God's sakes, I'm your doctor, not your patient! There's nothing to examine and it doesn't concern you, I'm fine, we're...fine."  
  
"Evidently not. You are clearly not fine. Neither am I."  
  
"How are you not fine?" John asks, voice perilously high. The bastard, after John's last twenty-four hours, _he_ has the audacity...  
  
"You haven't asked me about the case,” Sherlock says, expression just this side of childish. "It was a most satisfying case, both in development and in conclusion, and you haven't given me a single opportunity to tell you about it."  
  
"Oh, that's...That's just..." John's emitting sounds between bitter mirth, outrage, and disbelief. "So this is what this is about? You haven't had a chance to show off!"  
  
"I don't show off, John, I explain. Do I need to remind you that you are the one who tends to add an unnecessary element of drama in your accounts of our "adventures"?" Sherlock says. "And no, this is not what this is about."  
  
"Then what is it?" John is aware he's really raised his voice now, but he wants to let it rip; it feels good to be able to yell at his personal root of all evil. Who, of course, is running rings around him.  
  
"I've told you. My _God_ , you are distracted! You've not been able to follow a conversation since this morning. I am concerned about—I don't want you to be upset with m—to be upset. Your uncharacteristic lack of interest in the case was just an example of the marked difference from your typical behaviour. It also illustrated the direct consequences I was suffering."  
  
This time John knows he is gaping but blissfully he's gone past caring. _Let it rip_ , growls the voice of suppressed anger, frustration, confusion. _Let it rip._  
  
" _You_ are suffering?" He points at Sherlock, expression incredulous, then laughs. "Oh, that is _rich_!"  
  
"Are you?" Sherlock abruptly stands up and in two strides is looming over John, his eyes probing all over him as if John is a particularly mystifying corpse.  
  
"Am I what?" John asks, taken aback.  
  
"Suffering, John. That would also explain things."  
  
How was he ever thinking this would be fine? John is seized with despair. He recognizes defeat when he sees it. This is Sherlock. Hiding anything from him would have been as likely as shocking Einstein with the news that gravity exists.  
John's shoulders sag—he is reminded of how he started the morning. The man in the mirror, so...unattractive. Sagging.  
  
"I'm going to bed," he says and leaves the room.  
  
He could feel Sherlock's eyes follow him like laser beams.  
  
***  
  
Machine guns, blood, shouting, blood everywhere. He's running, panting, everything is moving too fast around him. Then suddenly there’s a door and John is leaning on it with all his weight, desperately, and he feels himself pushing slowly and it's so damn hard. The door's almost elastic—it caves under him but it neither resists fully nor does it break. The shouting continues; this time John could hear it from inside, too, and he is confused—is the shouting coming from the house or is it in his head? He pushes further; it is _imperative_ that he should get in! His life might depend on it—there is danger, danger everywhere, and he needs to hide in this place! The door still holds but it’s begun yielding, more and more, and John is running out of breath; he’s sweating; he _wants_ to get in so badly, but he also shouldn't. It’s so confusing. There's shouting inside, too; he shouldn’t, he shouldn’t. Or should he? This seems like the enemy's house, but is it really? It both is and isn't. Someone is definitely on the other side of the door; more whizzing and pushing, pushing, and he can feel himself entering as if in slow motion. Finally he's in and his body is _roaring_ —then he notices a figure on the floor. Has he thrown it back when he broke in, has he? The figure is curled up on itself; it looks bad…Why is it bad, oh it’s bad! A dark figure, familiar, the shape, familiar, familiar, it’s, it’s—His heart drops with such speed he's blacking out of horror, no, no, no, no, no, _Sherlock_...  
  
John wakes up from his worst nightmare in years with his own voice shouting in his own head Sherlock's name and _no, no, no_. Darkness engulfs him and the realization it was only a dream is terribly insufficient to make the world bearable—and John curls up on himself like the figure in his dream and sobs a thundering multitude of raw feelings into his chest.  
  
He could almost hear a pair of kitten's feet wearing a spot thin on the carpet outside his door.  
  
***  
  
John lays there in the dark for hours, letting his beehive of emotions buzz its sense into him. The gates of his subconscious haven’t closed and he’s got a path into it, leading him around intuitively. John is content to not be reasoning for a moment; he’s letting his feelings shift heaven knows what layers in the murky depths.  
  
He has been that scared—in the dark, unfathomable way only the sublime has the power to evoke—only a few times in his entire life. He isn’t so much aware about what the dream could mean; the dream has become part of him. And as a result he’s moved one step in each direction: closer to Sherlock and yet even further away. John tries to disentangle this apparent paradox, but all he’s got is fear and need.  
  
He is afraid that things between them would get shattered into a mighty breakage; that he would somehow hurt both himself and his friend if he as much as admits his feelings for him. Sherlock is the most extraordinary man John has ever met. He is also one of the most…abnormal men. Sherlock’s personality is like a very complicated structure of a house of cards: Sherlock has arranged it in an absolutely precarious balance to help him exist in a reality where almost everything could challenge him and potentially hurt him—through misunderstanding, through insensitivity, even through life’s terrible lack of stimulants for such an enormous mind. John’s learnt a thing or two while living with Sherlock; he’s also seen a medical record or two. He knows his friend is fragile to the point of self-destruction.  
  
He also knows that in him, John, Sherlock has found a solidifying element—an invisible glue which allows the cards to stick to each other just that little bit more securely. And the stakes are simply too high for John to risk shaking the construction. Sherlock told him “no” when John wasn’t even asking the question. That on its own is enough of a reason for John to know his place.  
  
He feels very lost in his own needs and priorities; he’s been that lost only a couple of times in his life. Once after someone’s death; the second time after his return from Afghanistan. John met Sherlock then—and Sherlock changed everything. The chances of getting a second reprieve from exactly the same source are as high as the chances of a lightning striking twice on the same spot.  
  
John will just have to learn to live with his feelings and keep himself in check. His reward will be that he’ll get to keep his life. He will just _force_ it to be normal and happy again. Like it was. Like it had been until a couple of days ago. John had a happy life until a couple of days ago. How about that?  
  
As for his current need, it’s a simple, visceral one—to go and make sure Sherlock is okay; to just be near him.  
  
John keeps nodding off in the early hours of the morning and then hurling himself back into reality, terrified the nightmare would find its way back to him. When the first light of dawn slithers into his room he could finally give in to his pressing need. It’s too early but John can make some tea. And have a slice of toast—no, a slice of toast AND an orange, and a cup of tea, and finally read his magazine, and be all normal—while he waits for Sherlock to wake up so that they could be _near_.  
  
***  
There’s a glitch in John’s plan as soon as he enters the sitting room. Because noise can be heard from the kitchen and as John looks in he already knows who’s making it. Sherlock turns away from the fridge ( _Oh God_ , what is he doing near the fridge _already_?) and the two of them start a nice staring contest at a leisurely pace. At first it’s just a sensation, nothing else, nothing sensible—he’s just looking and being looked at. Then John notices that Sherlock seems paler than usual, and there are traces of dark circles under his eyes, all the more prominent in contrast to the white. When reality finally returns to smack him behind his ear John veers back to his plan of Normal.  
  
“Morning.”  
  
“Good morning,” Sherlock replies.  
  
So far so good.  
  
Then they both say in the same breath.  
  
“You look awful.”  
  
“You’re up early.”  
  
Pause and another double entendre.  
  
"I couldn't sleep, I was...occupied."  
  
“Well, you’re not an oil-painting yourself.”  
  
They both smile despite the almost electric atmosphere in the room. John finally moves towards the danger zone; Sherlock shifts away from the fridge and John takes out the milk and an orange. He puts the kettle on, then asks absent-mindedly while he’s wondering if his cup is safe this morning. “Anything I need to worry about?”  
  
“I should say so,” Sherlock says, then presses. “I was occupied listening to you shouting in your sleep. Then I was trying to deduce the implications of that in light of the rest of the data I’d collected.”  
  
John puts down his empty cup and it's a wonder it doesn't break. He might as well have walked in stark naked—such is the sense of exposure he’s experiencing. He actually doesn’t know what to say, mostly because he is trying to make this conversation go away just by his sheer force of will.  
  
Sherlock saves him the trouble by drilling. “What did you dream about?”  
  
“I don’t remember.”  
  
“Of course you do. I need you to tell me, John.”  
  
“There’s nothing to tell. Sorry I woke you.”  
  
“I’m not expecting an apology; I need details.”  
  
“Well, apology is all you’re going to get so you better take it.”  
  
“Why wouldn’t you tell me?”  
  
“Because it isn’t—It’s not important. Just leave it, all right?”  
  
“You’re lying to me again.” Sherlock’s voice has an edge to it. “Why?”  
  
 _He is like a bloody dog_ , John realizes. _He’s got his nose down on the ground and he’s sniffed a trace and of course he won’t leave it—not until someone pulls him away forcefully._ Well, John’s not having this. What he _is_ having is a slice of toast, an orange, and a cup of tea. And his magazine, dammit! His voice goes up.  
  
“I’m not lying to you!”  
  
“Yes, you are,” Sherlock deadpans.  
  
“If I am, there’s a bloody good reason for it!” So early and he’s close to shouting again. “I don’t have to tell you everything. _You_ don’t have to know everything that goes on in my head—”  
  
“If it concerns me, I certainly—”  
  
“Don’t interrupt me.”  
  
The last sentence comes out evenly yet it's thunderous and Sherlock goes very still. John continues, his neck straining painfully as he speaks.  
  
"Do you have any understanding of the concept of privacy at all? It isn’t just about going into the bathroom, knocking first. It’s about people having the right to keep things to themselves. It doesn’t matter if it concerns you or the Pope—it’s my head, Sherlock, and it’s up to me to choose what to share.”  
  
The end of the last word suddenly makes the quiet ring. John looks at Sherlock’s face—there are some markers of the onset of a sulk, as well as the stubborn expression of fixation John’s come to associate with a case which just wouldn’t develop as expected. There is however a hint of something vulnerable there, too, as if suddenly John’s grown a head taller than Sherlock and is towering over him for a change. John forces his voice to go down within the reasonable register.  
  
“I’m not trying to…deceive you. I’m just not telling you everything. And it stays that way. It’s non-negotiable." John pauses, waiting for his words to gain more gravitas. "Now I’m going to make some toast and have breakfast. In silence if you don’t mind.”  
  
“The toaster isn’t working,” Sherlock says.  
  
“It was working last night.”  
  
“It isn’t working this morning.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“It broke.”  
  
“You mean you broke it.”  
  
“Fine, yes—I broke it. Happy now?”  
  
“Not particularly, no. I am having toast this morning. I don’t care if I have to use the floorboards to start a fire." John inhales deeply. "Put the oven-grill on.”  
  
“How?”  
  
John pushes and twists the knobs of the oven with unnecessary vigour, then commands. “Pass me the bread.”  
  
Sherlock does.  
  
“I’m putting two slices in: one for myself and one for you. You should eat. You look too pale for words. I’m going upstairs to put a jumper on. Watch the toast.” And without waiting for a response, he’s up those steps like he’s on a vital mission. He is, too—to make sense of his world and squash it back within its boundaries.

  
Upstairs he takes a few moments to open the window and air his room, while letting the cold London air slap his face around a bit.  
  
The second John walks back into the living room, he hears a clatter and a yelp from the kitchen. Before he’s even ordered them his feet rush him to a predictable sight—the toast is on the floor and Sherlock is looking at the inside of his right arm, face contorted with pain. John manhandles him to stand under the light with “Let me see, let me see!” He inspects the instantly forming line of red and says, “Tap.” Then he pulls Sherlock in the direction of the sink, runs the cold water, and positions the burnt spot under it. Sherlock hisses—the only sound he’s made the whole time, apart from his slightly broken breathing. John looks up at him, regret, concern, and exasperation written all over his face.  
  
“How did you manage to do that? I left you for two minutes.”  
  
“I opened the oven to look at the bread and, ough, it looked sort of brown.” Another hiss. “I took it out—I used the towel to hold the tray.” There is a hint of pride under Sherlock’s laboured tone. “But my arm brushed the oven door as I was taking the tray out.”  
  
“That’s because you have to open the door all the way down, Sherlock,” John says. “God, why did I leave you alone with it?!”  
  
Sherlock suddenly looks as close to tears as John has ever seen him.  
  
“I did watch it and it was ready—”  
  
“No, no. I’m not having a go, no! I’m just…” John’s overwhelmingly reminded about his dream and the figure on the floor. His throat gets very tight. He feels ridiculous, the moment feels just so...awkward, and John needs something to snap him out of it. Thankfully he’s a doctor and there’s a hurt man in front of him.  
  
“Keep it under the tap,” he says. “I’m coming back in a sec.”  
  
He runs to the bathroom and rummages through the cabinets until he finds the tube he’s looking for. He’s back by Sherlock’s side in a flash.  
  
“Here, let's stop the water. This is Aloe Vera; I'll get you a proper cream later, but this will do for now. Come over, I need more light.”  
  
He gets hold of Sherlock’s hand and pulls him towards the bigger window in the sitting room. Sherlock mutters a faint protest, “I haven’t burned my legs, John. I am perfectly capable of walking.” But he doesn’t let go of John’s hand and follows.  
  
John’s loses any traces of exasperation when he sees just how red the burn is, stark against the white skin. He hears himself sigh an anguished “Oh Sherlock…”, then opens the tube, squeezes a small amount of clear gel from it and very gently puts it at the top of the scorched line. Then with feather-light touches he starts spreading it down over it, barely dabbing here and there. His other hand is holding the injured arm steady and his thumb is half-consciously caressing small circles over the bare skin. John is utterly focused on what he’s doing and on not hurting Sherlock—his mouth is barely open, his hands are steady and tender.

  
Suddenly all he can hear is his own breathing in his ears, mixed with Sherlock’s small and irregular hisses. John gets to the end of the line. He looks at it for a few long seconds examining, while his fingers softly touch the undamaged skin around it. Then he lifts his eyes.  
  
Sherlock is looking at him transfixed. His own lips have opened to mirror John’s, a silent _Oh_ ghosting out of them; his eyes are imploding with their own intensity. They bore into John’s like burning arrows, and John feels like there's nothing left in the world but this, yes, this—  
  
Then Sherlock’s phone rings.

 

***

The phone rings again. And again. And again. Neither of them looks away and John keeps holding Sherlock by the arm. He suddenly wonders if that’s what’s preventing Sherlock from answering the persistent caller and he lets go abruptly as if he is the one who just got burned. Sherlock makes no move. John fidgets and clears his throat.  
  
“Erm. Aren’t you going to answer that?” he asks.  
  
The ringing stops, just as Sherlock says, “It’s not important.”  
  
“Sorry, did you just say it wasn’t important?” John lifts his eyebrows. At this early hour it could mean only one thing. But Sherlock is calm in his reply.  
  
“That’s what I said.” He confirms.  
  
“Sherlock, this could be a new case—that’s always important.”  
  
“It isn’t now.”  
  
“How could you know that without even looking—”  
  
Small irritation flutters through Sherlock’s reply. “Because I had a text message from Dimmock fifteen minutes ago which I ignored, so he’s calling now. Probably having a fit too.”  
  
“And you weren’t answering him because…”  
  
“It’s not important.” Sherlock is pinning John down with his gaze. Meanwhile John would very much like to know how it is possible to get actual goosebumps from just hearing someone speak with their most level tone. Instead, he says, “You should call him back.”  
  
Sherlock finally breaks his mummy impersonation and rolls his eyes.  
  
“It’s a pathetic excuse of a case. No one will get hurt for at least another twenty-four hours during which Dimmock should have plenty of time to get his man. Especially after I send him some photos.”  
  
“Don’t you want do that now?”  
  
“John. Not. Important.”  
  
John has no reply to that. He looks around the room, out of the window, at his feet—upon which Sherlock introduces a brand new topic that knocks the breath out of John.  
  
“I didn’t upset you the other night.” It’s a statement but there’s nothing dry and factual about it.  
  
John thinks he now knows how snakes must feel when they’re raised upwards by the hypnotic sound of the flute. Because he doesn’t seem to be able to move or avert his eyes, and neither can he resist the overpowering impulse to own up whatever truth Sherlock wants to hoax out of him. Sherlock, the John Charmer. John simply raises his head and shakes it. _No, you didn’t._  
  
Sherlock narrows his eyes as if he’s trying to X-ray John’s mind; what he sees makes him give a tiny nod and suddenly he closes the already too tight space between them. John feels the warm caress of Sherlock's breath over his temple and it takes _years_ of military discipline to stop himself from just...grab and hurt Sherlock in his blind desire. John’s faith that he’ll be able to keep his attraction in check starts undergoing serious tremors at that point; he has been brutally shaken with the need to touch and pull and _have_ Sherlock no less than three times in the last forty-eight hours, and that surely means all kinds of hell for John’s future living arrangements.  
  
Sherlock is watching John’s face as if it’s showing the latest developments on the murder investigation of the century. His movement has made John crane his neck a bit in order to maintain eye contact. John might have been so far successful in ignoring where this conversation is going but he knows exactly what the two of them look like at the moment.  
  
Finally Sherlock says slowly, “You’ve decided you’re attracted to me and you don’t know what to do about it.”  
  
Well, why beat around the bush when you can give it a right good thumping instead?  
  
Yet ironically John feels nothing but relief. It's like his chest is expanding fully for a first time in days. It is so incredibly liberating that he doesn’t stop to work out why being faced with the succinct truth at what is practically a metaphorical gun point should make him feel so relieved and…good. He feels good. God, he is messed up, isn’t he? But it doesn’t matter because he’s living with a madman and he wouldn’t be able to do that if he was perfectly normal so that is a very reasonable price to pay—  
  
Then the exact implication of Sherlock’s words arrives and John hears himself huff indignantly.  
  
“I haven’t _decided_ I’m attracted to you—I am. Trust me! No, this isn’t open for debate!” He presses a finger to Sherlock’s already opening lips, then moves it away immediately. _If I let myself now, if I only succumb…Your neck, do you know what a_ sight _it is from here and how much I want to taste it, and to touch your hair—I want to grab it and curl my fingers like babies’ fingers curl over a thumb. Or if I just press myself onto you and rub just_ once, _then I’ll show you not to argue with me if this is real or imagined._  
  
John, being John, says instead, “I’d appreciate it if you allow me to know how I feel, thanks. Considering you’re not exactly an expert in the pedestrian ways our ordinary human brains work.”  
  
Sherlock closes his mouth. John takes the opportunity to continue.  
  
“And I do know what to do about it.”  
  
Sherlock watches him expectantly with some small anxiety on his face. John wants to cry when he delivers his answer.  
  
“Nothing. We don’t have to—Nothing has to change. I’ll deal with this and we won’t even have to talk about it again.”  
  
Good news is Sherlock isn’t looking at him haughtily or pityingly, or God forbid in a revolted way. And isn’t running away. But he isn’t leaning in, either, or smiling. Sherlock is thinking. So John lets him. Finally Sherlock glances at his burned arm, then lifts his eyes to meet John’s.  
  
“I’m not sure…I don’t know what to do with all this.”  
  
It’s a miracle—Sherlock is at a loss. But John’s own personal miracle is that Sherlock is confessing it to John. Now all John has to do is navigate them through all the pernicious undercurrents and they can both just walk away from here and no one needs to get hurt.  
  
He employs his most reassuring doctor’s voice and quietly asks, “With what I’ve told you?”  
  
Sherlock starts nodding, then stops. “Not only. But yes. Fine. For instance, your conviction that this is real. How can you know that? Or your suggestion something like this doesn’t have to change things. That can’t be right, John, because things have already changed.”  
  
“Sherlock, they don’t have to.” John’s almost imploring. “I told you, I won’t—”  
  
“This isn’t about you!” Sherlock frowns, looking almost cross. “It’s about me—it’s changed things for me— _about_ me, John.”  
  
John looks at him, really looks—and thinks Russian roulette is picnic compared to the chances he’s taking here. Then he carefully says, “Are you not sure about how _you_ feel? About...erm. About me?”  
  
Sherlock swallows, then nods.  
  
“Okay,” John says, while a voice is chanting in his head _don't look down, one step at a time, one step at a time._ “Why don’t you tell me?”  
  
It’s Sherlock’s turn to huff in irritation. “Tell you what? It’s not just this now, it’s—It’s from before that. Don’t know when it—Oh God.”  
  
John can feel the frustration and can’t even begin to imagine what it must be like for Sherlock to be dealing with all this. Compared to him John’s the very definition of an ordinary bloke and it’s been a right little plight for him.  
  
Sherlock gives it another go.  
  
“You’re important to me John. I don’t enjoy the cases as much when you’re not involved in them. My evenings…I never used to think about how I lived or spent my time outside of my work, but now we’ve lived together, I do. I think about what it would be like if you weren’t here anymore. And when you started acting strangely, I got—I thought you were getting upset and then I thought you might even move out, because I’d pushed it but I didn’t even know what I had done.“  
  
Sherlock’s on a roll now and John can see he’s actually distressed: he’s burying his fingers in his hair, while shaking his head; his eyes are all over the place. But his body is staying firmly put where it’s been—close to John’s. John wants to wrap him in his arms so badly, the acuteness of the desire shocks him. But he lets Sherlock’s words continue tumbling out of his mouth.  
  
“I can’t tell with people, even with you,” Sherlock says with feeling. “Although with you I have a better chance, probably the best I’ve ever had with anyone. It's hard to tell when I become too much—oh, I know about it _afterwards_ , but not before. I don't always know when I really cross a line. Ordinary people have so many useless rules and boundaries; I can’t even begin to work them out nor I have the need to, but with you, it matters. I don’t want to make you...go.”  
  
“Sherlock.” John catches his agitated friend’s wrist. “I am not going anywhere; you don’t have to worry about that. I wouldn’t know what to do with myself if I left.” John releases a short bitter-sweet chuckle.  
  
Sherlock looks at John’s face and then at the hand holding his wrist. John lets go, although all his instincts are hollering at him to pull, to just pull Sherlock down, to seek his face. Anything would do: chin, mouth, cheek, the hollow of his neck, anything, as long as it’s skin, it’s him…John gulps. Sherlock’s eyes dart to John’s mouth, then up to his eyes again. Then Sherlock’s lips start curling into invisible words as if he’s silently rehearsing them.  
  
“Maybe your staying isn’t enough. For me. Isn’t enough for me.”  
  
Right.  
  
“Does this—Is this about your…” John hesitates because he’s never been very good with the subject, what with being a man and all.  
  
“You can call it “feelings”, John.” Sherlock says with some irony. “It’s not a dirty word.”  
  
Trust Sherlock to override gender stereotypes.  
  
“Well, maybe _you_ can call it that, but I’m a bloke and… you know,” John says.  
  
“But that’s exactly the point!” Sherlock exclaims. “How would I know? That’s why I’m here, embarrassing myself, aren’t I?”  
  
Of course Sherlock would get cross with anyone who doesn’t perform by his standards, even if that poor sod happens to be Sherlock himself. But what makes John’s heart go out to him is the insecurity which transpires under the veil of typical brusqueness. _He is probably far more lost than I am,_ John realizes. _At least I know how I feel. I can put names to most of my feelings._ Sherlock is like one of those young savants who take their A levels at fourteen: first in the class, yet last when it comes to the most normal interactions in the school corridors.  
  
John catches the fine wrist again and permits his thumb a guilty caress over the cool skin. It might be his only chance.  
  
“You’re not embarrassing yourself,” he says. “We’re talking. It’s what people do when, you know, they need to figure things out.”  
  
Sherlock's face relaxes a bit—he seems to take John’s word for this, for everything about all of this, and that makes John feel more special than he’s felt since he was given his first Certificate of Excellence as a pupil. After an eternity of chasing after it he’s finally caught his beautiful, extraordinary specimen and now he’s holding it between his palms. John understands the full force of his power over Sherlock. He could grind him to dust at the moment if he only pressed his palms together and twisted.  
  
He opens them.  
  
“Okay, ask me. Anything you want to know.”  
  
***  
  
They are sitting side by side on the sofa, slightly facing each other. Sherlock looks misshapen as if he’s not had any practice with one of the most common exhibits of body language. He probably hasn’t, John thinks. But where the body looks out of habit the mind is on top form, and John hears a forthright “Didn’t you have a sexual identity crisis at all?”  
  
John shrugs.  
  
“I know I’m not gay,” he says. “When Harry came out, I went and read everything about it. I had to know, to make sure I—I wanted to make sure I wasn’t going to accidently offend her or—just to know. I’ve never been attracted to men, er, before. I doubt it I’ll be attracted to another man again."  
  
John pauses and gathers courage.  
  
"It’s you, Sherlock.” He is amazed at how gentle his voice could sound; one more thing this man has made John discover about himself. “I knew exactly what was going on with—When you came home the other night, you know, with the—when you were drunk. When I found out. I knew it was _you_ I was reacting to. It wasn’t surprising really, in retrospect.”  
  
Sherlock barely waits for John to finish.  
  
“But I was right that you didn’t know what to do about it,” he says.  
  
“I didn’t, not at first,” John replies truthfully. “It’s a lot to take in.”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
John shoots a look at Sherlock’s face—a heartfelt “yes” if there ever was one. Then he continues.  
  
“But I decided I wasn’t going to risk it and lose this, our friendship. You. If you hadn't pushed it, I wasn’t going to do or say anything.”  
  
Sherlock ignores the last comment. He's got something on his mind, John can tell by how feline his eyes have become. They pierce John's, while Sherlock asks, “And that it was _me_ you had feelings for—you just accepted it?”  
  
John looks his friend squarely in the face. “Yes.”  
  
Sherlock stares at John at last having his go at being fascinated. Then his voice comes out like liquid silk.  
  
“You're an extraordinary creature, John Watson.”  
  
John tilts his head inquisitively, ignoring some of his body parts’ attempts to get his attention.  
  
“How's that?”  
  
“Oh you are,” Sherlock’s eyes are shining. “How do you work, how? How can you be so normal, so perfectly…compressed into this normal human being, and still be so _you_?”  
  
John’s heart is speeding up. Sherlock continues, almost as if he’s letting John in on a secret.  
  
“I’ve thought about you. I’ve tried to work it out, find out what makes you so different. Just like you’re not interested in men, I’ve hardly ever been interested in—” Sherlock hesitates, then just blurts out, “—people. Love, sex, the whole lot. I’ve never been much—” Sherlock frowns and chews on his lip. “Not the point. My personal history required me to ask myself why I wanted to be around you so much. Why I _needed_ it.” Bashful suits Sherlock as much as gaudy pink suits a nun but John loves it nonetheless.  
  
Sherlock continues. “I wondered if it was because your reactions weren’t like everyone else’s. I have come to the conclusion that this _is_ a reason. The fact that you stayed. And you did the things I asked you to, and you didn’t get shocked, not much. It’s a big reason but not the only one. There have been other people before…not many.” Sherlock’s voice has a rare quality to it now and John knows he has just received an invitation to a very solitary place. “But there _have_ been people who wanted to—I suppose you could say they cared…too, they cared, too. But I didn’t care much for them. So it inferred it wasn’t just your reaction to me that was making you important.”  
  
“Um...Have you figured out what it is?” John asks, wishing he didn’t sound so sickeningly hopeful.  
  
“I don’t know.” Sherlock whispers the last sentence, his eyes so radiant that John is grateful he is sitting. “I don’t know,” Sherlock repeats. “It’s just… you.” There is a pause. “Which makes it quite a dangerous prospect,” Sherlock adds quietly.  
  
John jolts from his semi-reverie. “What do you mean?”  
  
Sherlock gives his reply matter-of-factly but his eyes look like diamonds—beautiful yet able to cut through anything.  
  
“I mean that I find myself wanting to see how close I can get. To you. And that could be...inconvenient."  
  
"Sherlock?" John’s tone is reproachful, but he’s allowed—the stakes are too high for Sherlock to be extra-confusing with his foggy wording.  
  
"All right, things could get complicated,” Sherlock says reluctantly. “It...It could get us both hurt.”  
  
Ah.  
  
John doesn’t rush; he knows he has to exceed himself this time because it is _crucial_ he says the right thing. He licks his lips, then offers with his calmest voice.  
  
“I don’t think it would, though. I can’t promise you that because there are too many things that could change but I can promise you this: Whatever we have here—If there is anything that threatens it or you, Sherlock, I _will_ do my best to, I don’t know…” John takes a breath before finishing. “I’ll do whatever it takes, whatever. So that we’re fine.”  
  
Sherlock nods with a somewhat sombre face. He looks as if he’s just heard John very solemnly swear to love, honour and obey, and John thinks it’s high time he gets to hear some vows, too, because he’s been playing such a long game here, and he can hear thunder in the distance so maybe, maybe there’ll be a lightning to fall again? He asks a question of his own.  
  
“What if you decided to leave?”  
  
Sherlock looks genuinely confused.  
  
“Why would I ever do that?”  
  
“Because you get bored easily. Because you figure it—me, out.”  
  
There is a long pause. Sherlock’s looking at him so seriously. Is he contemplating that possibility? John hates it that he actually is. But this is also one of the things that define Sherlock—he is honest; he doesn’t do pity or delicacy, and it’s reassuring in a totally roundabout way, and John loves that, too. Because when Sherlock speaks next John will know exactly where he stands. And if what comes next is bad, it’ll be _very_ bad, but if Sherlock looks at John the way he is looking at him now, and if he reaches to touch a strand of John’s hair, still sticking after it’s been harassed through the jumper, like he is doing now, then that will be real; it will be completely and utterly genuine, then, _then_ it could be glorious.  
  
“I am not sure you could be figured out,” Sherlock murmurs. “Not in the way I do it.”  
  
“Doesn’t that, I don’t know…put you off?” John asks, unwilling to rejoice yet.  
  
Another, shorter pause.  
  
“No. No, it doesn’t.” Sherlock doesn’t sound surprised, he doesn’t sound anything. It’s the truth and he just accepts it. John knows it’s a fundamental thing they have in common. The ways they are not alike are thousands. But occasionally there is something neat and tucked in somewhere in there, and it’s like a supporting wall in a house—their relationship would crash without it.  
  
Sherlock’s still talking. John suddenly feels a stupid sense of pity that this is probably the first time his friend has had a real opportunity to explore such matters; the first time he’s felt safe enough to do it. So John keeps quiet and lets him, just like he has let himself be many other firsts for Sherlock.  
  
“Why would it put me off?!” Sherlock asks himself as much as he asks John. “I’ll never be able to deduce you, because evidently feelings can’t always be explained and don’t always follow a logical pattern. But it also means I’m unlikely to get bored with you. I don’t want to get bored with you, John.” Sherlock’s eyes fix John’s. He’s said the last sentence insistently as if he’s speaking in codes and it is imperative John uses the right cipher.  
  
"If I don’t get bored with you, that means I could kee—That we could just stay. The two of us. If you wanted to. Er...I hope you do." Then Sherlock adds quietly, as an afterthought. “Because I don’t think I’d do that—I’d ever want to do that with anyone else.”  
  
John’s cheeks are burning. It’s a lot to feel in one instant—a man isn’t supposed to get all this packed into such a small container. John can’t find his bearings; it’s all one giant cauldron of intensity. He will never, ever get his head around this man and his own absorption with him. This will _never_ get old.  
  
There is the special kind of silence that signifies a void is opening, filled with possibilities after all the words have finally been said.  
  
Then John moves, very slowly, bringing his face closer and closer, just like the camera in old silent films zooms in on the protagonist. Sherlock looks like a marble statue but his eyes are ablaze with worry and invitation. His features are getting blurrier, but his breathing is getting sharper, and so is his scent. John’s subconscious has managed to sneak in a fantasy or two under the radar, about a touch maybe, or maybe about lips—but the real prospect of it is giddying. Yet on John moves, and finally his forehead touches Sherlock’s. Instantly John closes his eyes and lets out an unequivocal gasp. Contact!  
  
For a few seconds he adjusts to the reality of it, the sound of Sherlock’s breathing accompanying John’s own louder exhales. John doesn’t want to open his eyes; he wants to embed into himself the uncomplicated sensations of arousal and excitement, and _Sherlock_. Nothing needs to be explained in this—it is so heavy with intuitive content that John would love to remain happily buried under its wonderful weight, absolved of any sense. He rolls his forehead softly to seek more pressure, then moves the rest of his face, eager for other matching points of contact. Eyebrows touch eyebrows, then cheekbones (cheekbones!), cheeks, jaw. He ends up leaning the side of his face into Sherlock’s, then proceeds to rub gently once or twice, not unlike a cat, while his body hums with want.  
  
Just when he loses all conscious self-observation, his chin turns. His mouth touches something firm, full, and slightly damp; John blindly latches onto it, and sinks in.  
  
***  
  
Early morning autumn sunlight is playing haphazardly over uneven surfaces: books, glass containers, skulls. It’s also making small glints chasing each other over the smoothest surface John’s ever had the fortune to see and touch—the stretch of skin on Sherlock’s neck.  
  
John has Sherlock in his hands and he is taking his time. He’s being excruciatingly slow, for Sherlock’s sake—to give him the option to say no at every press of a kiss and every brush of fingers.  
  
John is still keeping his metaphorical palms open.  
  
But it’s for his own sake as well. Because John wants _more_. He finds himself ravenous for more at every step now, and somewhere in him there is still a voice that chimes that this could be a dream, or he might do something wrong. That Sherlock might spread his wings and fly away after all. So just in case John is being very, very careful.  
  
He strokes Sherlock’s neck, first with his palm, then with the backs of his fingers, over and over again, for ages—before he finally lets his mouth press its first stamp on the neck. John then caresses its curvature with his lips, increasing the pressure gradually, until his head is swimming with Sherlock’s strong, unique scent. ( _Divine_. Masculine and so very refined; John could swear Sherlock smells intelligent.) Only then John opens his lips and lets himself _taste_.  
  
It is mouth-wateringly delicious, of course, what else could it be? At this point John almost gets stupid—all in a flash his hands spread open Sherlock’s dressing gown, roughly pull his t-shirt out and surge upwards under it, pressing impatiently over the naked flesh, grabbing...  
  
John hears a sound and realizes he’s just grinded his teeth. He makes himself stop; his hands will have to wait their turn like everything else, as much as they are hurting to rub and squeeze and press _more_. John wants to enjoy this, but more importantly he wants Sherlock to enjoy it. So he pulls his hands away from under the t-shirt, the sigh of discontent from Sherlock making him buoyant, and he returns to the neck. And the jaw. And the collar bone. His left hand has found a worthy compensation in burying itself in Sherlock’s hair, the texture unexpectedly soft and silky. John closes his fingers, gently pulls Sherlock’s head backwards and holds it there for a moment, while he gains a better access to the small hollow spot at the bottom of Sherlock's throat. Within seconds it becomes John’s favourite place in the world.  
  
After Sherlock’s mouth, of course.  
  
Now that mouth, John’s primitive part muses, has always had ridiculously high chances of ruining any mortal. John has wondered if Sherlock isn’t cross for having something so blindingly sensual slap bang in the middle of his face, to inform the world he is human all right, warm blood and all. John’s had his proof of that already—Sherlock kisses like no one has the right to. He’s all lazy, generous strokes of the tongue and perfect angles of access and moist pressure of lips. Very warm-blooded. Very intuitive, too, because with whatever coherence he’s got left, John can sense this isn’t an experienced kisser—just a very eager one. The thought he is the source of that eagerness is what makes John return to the mouth and claim it as if it is only his to claim. The most wondrous thing being that, the way things are going, and the way Sherlock’s eyes aren’t opening, it looks like it _is_.  
  
For a few long moments they just kiss; salty, sweet, fleshy, it’s the most intimate thing John’s ever done. He is quite certain this is the other subject’s fault.  
  
Then at long last the damn gown is pushed down along thin shoulders. Sherlock makes a small sound of discomfort as the material brushes the burnt spot on his lower arm and John immediately detaches himself from the kiss to scoot down and look at it with a “Sorry, sorry!” on his lips. “Umpf,” is Sherlock’s dismissive comment while he’s trying to pull John back upwards, eyelids barely open, mouth seeking to resume its play with his, as if John is Sherlock’s special oxygen supplier. John obliges, hands gently slipping under Sherlock’s t-shirt and resting on the edge between pyjama bottoms and bare waist. His thumbs play with the elastic unconsciously, while John’s body is shifting on its own accord—it’s going after some more solid contact. Kissing is wonderful, suckling is marvellous, but when a man has had the amount of mental cold showers that John’s had over the last few days, it’s bound to not be enough at some point.  
  
They press their bodies awkwardly, legs slipping, trying again and slipping back, then seeking a better place to entangle and lock; hands randomly skimming and stroking, and occasionally squeezing. John’s are more restless. Sherlock’s hands are not assured; they move in a utilitarian way—to keep John close and to allow him better access. John’s fine with that. He wants to give.  
  
Yet it is Sherlock who reaches for his own t-shirt and takes it off without hesitation or warning. This is the first time since they’ve started when both of them have their eyes open and there is no point of contact between their bodies. Sherlock drops the garment on the floor and looks at John, mouth corners doing their small, idiosyncratic pull downwards—the one which looks like he’s pouting with upset, but John calls it Sherlock’s nervous pout. John’s eyes travel up and down the predictably slim, narrow form in front of him. Sherlock's body looks like it is glowing—John thinks Sherlock is just beautiful. Then he has the rather excellent idea to tell him that.  
  
Sherlock’s eyelids lower seductively in appreciation of the compliment. John instantly decides that’s enough with the looking and is moving forward again, hands finally given a free rein to feed. John’s mouth follows and then there’s _a lot_ of skin smelling of Sherlock. John starts losing minutes or whole concepts.  
  
Which is why, for instance, he can’t remember how he’s arranged Sherlock flat on his back. But as he’s looking at Sherlock’s face, lax with arousal and something akin to abandon, John thinks he should have done this much earlier after all. Something hot and fierce bursts in him at the sight; he feels both omnipotent and so humbled, and all because of that man. Who is now not only his equal, but a trusting, offering one. John, the Sherlock charmer. John could do anything to Sherlock right now and that makes him shake with greed, with desire, with need. With love.  
  
Suddenly he can’t _stand_ the slow rhythm any longer, his thoroughness be damned. John lowers himself down to cover Sherlock’s body with his own and with every point of contact the sensation gets more and more indescribable. Finally they’re pressing into each other and John tries, he really _tries_ to keep some track of this, but he can’t. Friction. Friction, burning, hot friction, more, oh yes, that’s it, more, more friction, and now Sherlock is shifting his long, lean legs, eyes shut and mouth open, panting coming out more and more ragged. _Not enough, not enough,_ John panics. His hands remove his own jumper and t-shirt in one motion, then in another he loses his jeans, boxer shorts going with them; he barely touches the rim of Sherlock’s bottoms and Sherlock lifts his hips up readily. John frees him of the last item of clothing between the two of them, both working like the perfect team they are: Sherlock has figured out John’s secret, then John has helped Sherlock through his fears; John is reaching, Sherlock is lifting, John is removing, Sherlock is moaning. They’re both playing different tunes on their flutes, but they’re both rising for each other as they always have—nothing can hurt them, break them apart. John isn’t wasting a _second_. His naked body returns immediately back over Sherlock’s and they start moving together— it’s perfect, it’s them. Someone’s hand weaves a path lower and lower and then cuts to the chase, and they both gasp…Friction, _more_ friction.  
  
Sherlock looks frantic, face very flushed, strangled sounds coming out close to whimpering. “Shh, shh.” John soothes, holding Sherlock’s face between his hands, “Shh…” _It’s fine, I promise you, it’s fine, I’m here._ Sherlock leans into the touch and his upper body relaxes while his lower counterpart starts pushing and rotating, demanding and _oh, God yes_...  
  
...and of course it would be over too soon.  
  
It makes every nerve ending in John’s body awash with searing pleasure while his brain keeps repeating Sherlock’s name, caught in a loop. John clenches his jaws and closes the circuit he’s opened in the beginning of this, by pressing his forehead to Sherlock’s again, finding his only constant in the vast ocean of lost control. His body is following the scattered rhythm of movement by inertia; John groans under the returning awareness of his own weight and lifts his head to look down at Sherlock. He’s just in time to enjoy the _spectacular_ view of Sherlock’s eyes snapping open—the palest alien green line circling huge black abyss of a pupil—as Sherlock’s neck strains and his mouth slacks. It is the most erotic sight, accompanied by the most erotic sound—the one syllable of his name hidden in Sherlock's gasp. “Johnnn...”.  
  
***  
  
They lie together on the sofa. Sherlock fidgeted once or twice before impatiently grabbing the big leather sofa cushions at the back of the sofa and throwing them aside, making more space, then rolling John over to the hard board as a sort of replacement of the discarded cushions. He pressed into him and finally stilled. Their breathing is back to normal and their bodies are slowly cooling down. The hairs on Sherlock’s arms start standing, and John scrambles to get up, ignoring a glare from his flatmate, friend, lover, boyfriend Sherlock. He gets the dressing gown and covers them both with it, then melts when Sherlock presses closer. John holds him.  
  
Sherlock’s phone has been ringing on and off the whole time. It rings again now, tone annoyed in the quiet of the room. Sherlock doesn’t move but John can feel the tingling itch running through his muscles.  
  
“I know you want to get to the case,” John says. “Just...Stay one more minute.”  
  
Silence. Then John feels a butterfly kiss on his cheek and a slightly raspy voice murmurs near his chin, “I’ll stay four.”   
  
  
  
EPILOGUE  
  
They're not going to make it on time. It's no longer a possibility, but a certainty. John's already getting too warm and he knows he’ll start shivering when they go out into the cold; he sighs and takes off the jacket he’s put on too soon.  
  
It's the one night he’s asked for, the one night when they do things his way. His night. And of course there’s been arguing about the restaurant (“Dull.” “How can a restaurant be dull?” “It can, when I’ve seen all the regulars. Boring lot, if only for their lack of imagination when it comes to eating at the same place over and over again.” “Says the man whose only way of remembering them is if he went there countless times himse-- Sherlock! Don’t turn your back on me, I’m still talking!”), then bargaining about the no phones rule (“Fine! We’ll only miss the affair with the abducted twins turning into a full-blown murder investigation, but it’s far more important we eat our dessert _uninterrupted_!”) And now this. It’s worse than waiting for a woman to get ready.  
  
Right. There’ll have to be arguments here too, of course there will.  
  
“Sherlock! It’s five to, how much longer are you going to be? I told you I didn’t want to rush, it’d be nice to just walk at a normal pace for once!”  
  
There is a short stretch of quiet before he hears,  
  
“We usually walk at a normal pace. Your legs are shorter.” John just shakes his head as Sherlock's voice floats to him from the bedroom: “Won’t be a moment. Last-minute changes.”  
  
“What changes? It’s not like you have to pick the colour of the boa you’ll be wearing! Just put your jacket on and let’s go!”  
  
“Stop pestering me!”  
  
“I wouldn't have to pester you, if you acted like less of a primado--“  
  
John swallows the end of his last word. Then he just swallows.  
  
Sherlock is standing in the doorway. John is reminded of the very first time they met at Baker Street and Sherlock dashed off, only to return a moment later and look at John appraisingly from that exact same spot. Taking stock of him, turning him inside out within seconds, then inviting him to join.  
  
But this time Sherlock is the one getting the appraising look. John’s eyes are gobbling him a fair bit, in fact, while his mouth is taking its customary slightly-ajar position.  
  
“It’s-- You’re wearing your,” John clears his throat, “your jeans.”  
  
“Yes?!” says Sherlock, in a way which translates roughly as _I am willing to make further allowances for your undying habit of saying aloud everything that comes to your mind regardless of how obvious it is, because, well, it’s _you_ , but try not to make it too painful_.  
  
John gulps and gathers himself.  
  
“Why--  You don’t wear jeans, why are you wearing jeans?”  
  
Sherlock slowly walks into the room and towards John’s chair.  
  
“Why do you think?” he asks, his mouth turning a corner at an impossibly sexy juncture.  
  
John stands up, facing Sherlock at a very close range.  
  
“I think it’s because you’re a terrible attention seeker and you’re after some evidence of... You know.” The finish is lame, but it seems pointless talking when, absolutely of its own accord, his hand has reached out and his middle finger has just brushed the material of the jeans, tightly spread over a thigh. Over Sherlock’s thigh.  
  
“Or,” Sherlock says, managing to get even closer without _actually_ moving, “I wanted to wear something I know you like. You don’t give me enough credit, John. Or yourself.”  
  
John huffs a small laugh, his fingers slightly more confident.  
  
“I give you plenty of credit, trust me! Um… thank you?”  
  
“Are you _asking_ if you should thank me? You _should_ thank me. I don’t usually do things for other people.”  
  
“You are impossible,”- says John, while his hand gently plays over the lean, hard surface.  
  
“Yet here I am, wearing jeans with no sensible justification. A perfect example of your ability to make very improbable things happen.”  
  
John should probably take the time to be flattered, but he’s just got a lungful of _that_ new expensive aftershave, used sparsely this time so it could be smelled only in very close proximity. His eyes level on Sherlock’s quirked lips-- and it feels so good to know John’s allowed to touch them _any_ which way his body pleases. His fingers love the material of the jeans, but what they love even more, apparently, is the cool metal of Sherlock’s belt buckle.  
  
John’s eyes are losing focus, when he hears:  
  
“That’s not very good, now, is it? I’ve only just put them on.”  
  
“Just be grateful I’m not asking you to get down on all fours.”- John mutters, slightly dazed.  
  
Sherlock raises an eyebrow, then lowers his mouth so that it barely brushes John’s ear:  
  
“Grateful? Why would I be _grateful_ for that?”  
  
They are going to be so late.

**Author's Note:**

> Unbetaed, apologies for any mistakes. This is my first piece of slash—I hope you enjoy and it doesn't read too awkward writing-wise!  
> And thank you, everyone, who left me kudos and comments in the past couple of months!:)
> 
> Original entry [over here](http://stardust-made.livejournal.com/10718.html) at my Livejournal.


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